I am a table

"I am a table," I kept saying to myself, as I tried to hold very still. I was posed before him on my hands and knees, my head raised to keep in view the old movie he was playing for his benefit and mine. Straining my head upward coincidentally deepened the trough running down my back over my arched spine. "I am a table."

"Actually to me it felt more like you were a dish or serving platter." This he wrote afterwards, in response to the obligatory report on my experience of his latest artistic triumph.

At times I did experience it like that.
But mainly I kept thinking "I am a table."
To help me focus.
To not forget.
To hold perfectly still.
To let nothing spill.

Nothing was what I had expected. When announcing the visit, he had indicated a desire for " a nice relaxing blow job. No training, no drama, no big emotional event, just friendly and efficient service from my personal cocksucker." Which was fine with me - not that it would have made any difference if it weren't. Any time with him, every time with him, enriches me and deepens our connection. Even the catastrophes.

And then - the text. About an hour and a half before he was due. "Change of schedule. Text me your earliest availability." I was in the kitchen, preparing breakfast, coffee not yet ground, plenty of time... and then this.

I asked for a half hour, regretting the change, assuming an appointment had popped up and the visit would be early and shortened. Shows how much I know.

Another text.
Prepare the DVD.

Now that was a surprise. He'd been talking about it for almost as long as we'd known each other. Talking about its significance for him. About wanting to show it to me. About wanting to do things to me while it played. I had purchased a copy on his orders. And been reimbursed, of course. I bought it in person, not on line, which felt like yet another ritual. I was in a mild trance the whole time. But there was still the issue of when we could arrange a showing. I would remind him of it every so often, and then suddenly it was now.

Things are like that with him.
It accentuates my sense of being subject to his will.
Subject to his whim.
I am his subject.
I am an object.

He arrived with a take-out cup of coffee and a large Black and White cookie packaged in cellophane. If you don't know what that is, look it up. It's a New York City thing. A Jewish thing, I always thought. They were a special treat growing up, those Black and White cookies, but not packaged. Fresh. From the local bakery. They inspire intense nostalgia. So something in me smiled at the sight of it. But I don't know which I wanted more, the cookie (which I shouldn't eat anyway, as I am more or less diabetic now) or the coffee, which was deleted from my suddenly rushed breakfast menu.

I ended up having both.
One way or another.

He made a cursory inspection of his property, no more than a quick glance, then ordered me downstairs with a stop-off in the kitchen for a mug and 2 napkins. No plate.

I missed the significance of that last specification. How could I have known?

The usual rituals ensued, and then he had me start the movie.

He positioned me where I could watch the movie, submit to nipple pinching, and pay appropriate attention to his cock. He drew my attention to the lighting, cinematography, and set design, while pointing out certain significant lines. Then he ordered me on my hands and knees, before him, while at a small distance from his chair and facing the TV screen.

Recently, DL's toy put up a couple of posts (here, with this one as a follow-up, including an overly long comment from me) about giving her sadistic Master a blow job while he watches porn. To quote toy: "It makes me feel like i'm inadequate with serving my Owner and sometimes it even lowers me into the space of feeling incompetent as a slave."

Inevitably, I thought of this as the morning's activities unfolded, including the part that was totally unexpected. The film we were watching isn't normally classified as porn, but it does have a sadistic component and resonates deeply with my own sadist on that and other levels. He was showing it to me as part of my education, as well as for his own amusement and inspiration. Still, some of the concept was the same.

Even if it had been out-and-out full blown XXX-rated porn, it wouldn't have bothered me. Nor would I have felt as if we were competing for the fiend's attention and response. As I said in my comment to toy's post: "I would feel as if I and the porn were all part of a combined effort to give my Master pleasure."

I should note, though, that when he finally had me settle down to some serious cocksucking, he paused the movie. The thought of which makes me smile and feel all-over warm and treasured. He sure does love my cocksucking...

But enough about the cocksucking.
It's not as if I haven't written plenty about that before.
Time to get back to my main point.
Being a table.
Or a dish.
Or a serving platter.

I'm on my hands and knees, facing the TV, head straining upwards to see the movie, when I hear the crinkling of cellophane. Time for his mid-morning snack, I think. He'll settle back for his cookie and coffee, and if he thinks I'm a very good girl he'll break off a piece of cookie and offer it to my mouth. I do love when he feeds me. I wish I could live off nothing but what he feeds directly into my mouth. Drinking only the water he gives me from his cupped hands.

Or with a kiss from his own mouth into mine.

He did break off a piece.
A few pieces.
He broke off some pieces and laid them in the valley of my spine.
He lined them up.
Small pieces of cookie.
And then he bent over me
and ate from my back.

I held very still.
I am a table.
A table doesn't wriggle and squirm.

Small boys drink milk with a cookie.
Big boys drink coffee.
The sadist is a big boy.
He poured the coffee
onto my back
and lapped it up.
The arch of my back formed a trough over my spine.
He poured in the coffee
and licked it off my skin.
Sucked it off my skin.
Kissed it off my skin.

I was afraid it would be hot.
I was afraid it would burn
even after the time that had passed.
It wasn't all that hot.
The next serving was.
Did he pour it from closer?
It doesn't matter.
It was hot.
It hurt.
Not that much.
But enough.
And I welcomed the pain.
I was a table.
I held very still.
I wanted to please him.
I didn't want to spill a drop.
And yes,
I admit it,
I didn't want any drops on my carpet.

He hurt me.
Just a little.
As if he had dripped wax on my back.
But this was coffee.
To go with the cookie.
He ate the cookie off my back
and then he pressed his mouth to my skin
and he drank the coffee off my back.

He hurt me.
Earlier.
I just remembered.
Not that I'd forgotten.
But I just remembered now.
Before I became a table.
When I was just a girl on her hands and knees.
He hurt me.
He spanked me.
How could he not?
Presented with my most inviting ass,
how could he not?
And then he flogged me.

He doesn't often flog me. I wish he would do it more. It's the only implement I can say I love. Except when he uses it on my tits and pussy. The first instance scares me and the second hurts too much.

I'm such a wimp about pain.
But I always submit.
That, however, is for a different post.

So. He flogged me with the beautiful turquoise blue and soft brown leather flogger that his slave constructed from our Master's precise specifications. It is beautiful to see and beautiful to caress and beautiful laid next to my pale skin and only hurts if he whips me very, very hard.

Which he did yesterday.
For just a bit.
It didn't even hurt all that much.
And I loved it.

But tonight I am writing about being a table. And when I wrote him with my feelings about the flogger, he replied: "Part of the reason for the flogger yesterday was to decorate my eating implement."

He does love that word.
Implement.
There is something of the torturer's mindset to it.
Don't you think?

I am a table.
He placed his food on me.
On me as a table.
On me as a plate.
And he pressed his mouth against my body,
taking sustenance from me
as I do from him.
And I held very, very still
and didn't spill a drop.

The coffee.
The slight burn of the coffee.
I wanted more of that, too.
I didn't get more of the burn.
But I did get more of the coffee.

I was sucking his cock. Perhaps the movie had been paused by then. I had been down on my haunches, down on the floor sucking his cock when he raised me up on my knees and positioned my body close to his. He took the cup of coffee and slowly, carefully, poured some over my left breast and then put his mouth to my pale breasts and licked the rivulets of cooled coffee from my skin and then took my breast in his mouth and sucked the coffee off my skin.

He was eating from my body, and yet I was the one receiving a sacrament.

And the carpet?
Are you wondering about the carpet?
He was thinking of the carpet.
He dribbled the cooled coffee on my left breast with his belly positioned underneath to catch any spills. In the cool dungeon he was still wearing an undershirt, and the cloth caught the errant drops and took them away as a souvenir.

He is a sweet man, my sadist.

And once again, I have been transformed.

We never did make it to the end of the movie, and in truth I didn't see much of what came before. But I have it here and will watch it soon. As for the rest, once my amazing Master left I devoured what was left of the cookie - which was most of it - and gratefully drank the last of the coffee. Then I took a shower.

I felt a little guilty at first about taking the shower. As if I were washing him off me. But as I stood under the warm downflow, I knew I was washing him into me. I gave my body to the water as if to a baptismal blessing, and as happens more often than not after each of my Master's visits, I was embraced by his ownership.